


The Usefulness of Madmen

by bjbookcase



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjbookcase/pseuds/bjbookcase
Summary: When a case of mistaken identity gets Kathryn Janeway kidnapped, the Angry Warrior won’t let anything stand in the way of rescuing her.





	The Usefulness of Madmen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the VAMB Spring Fling 2008.

“Let me guess. Someone called their replicator a glorified toaster again.”

Chakotay watched in amusement as the woman sitting on the office floor twisted around, scattering replicator parts like billiard balls. Despite her promotion to Admiral, some things would never change. Kathryn Janeway liked getting her hands dirty.

And her smile still quickened his heart rate.

“Chakotay, when did you get back? I thought Voyager wasn’t due for another week.”

He grinned. “I guess no one factored in my expert diplomatic skills.”

Janeway gave a very unladylike snort. “In other words, Leader Anisette was blonde, built, and completely smitten by your good looks and smooth talking.”

Chakotay tugged on an ear. She would bring up that tired old chestnut. “Yes, well, isn’t that what they taught us in Command School? To handle situations using our best assets?”

“That depends on who’s handling whose assets, Captain.” She held a hand out to him.

Chakotay pulled her to her feet and into a warm embrace. “Jealous, Admiral?”

Janeway eased back and thumped him on the chest. “Of one of your blondes? Not likely.” She moved close again. “But I am glad you’re home.”

“Likewise,” he whispered into her hair. “But what if she’d been a redhead?”

That earned him another thump. “Ha! I seem to remember that the last redhead you had a thing for kept trying to sabotage Voyager. “

“Brunette?”

“Species 8472.”

“Bald?”

“A female version of the Doctor? Hmmm . . .”

“Forget it. I’m going to take an oath of celibacy. Maybe join a monastery somewhere . . .”

“I’d order you back. I’d miss you too much.” Janeway’s palm came to rest over his heart.

Chakotay covered her hand with his. “And you wouldn’t have anyone to fill you in on the latest antics of your former crew.”

Janeway laughed. “There is that.” She hugged him again and then motioned him into a chair. “Would you like . . .” She looked back at him with a sheepish grin. “Oops, it would seem my replicator isn’t working at the moment.”

Chakotay held out his arm to her. “Then allow me. I happen to know a great little café in Mendocino that roasts and blends its own coffee beans. They also make the best clam chowder —served in a freshly baked sourdough bread bowl — this side of Vega Twelve.” He smiled at the thought. “Afterwards, we can walk off our lunch on the beach and maybe visit a few galleries and shops.”

“You seem to be assuming that I can just up and desert my duties for the rest of the day, Captain.”

“All that shiny stuff on your collar has to be good for something, doesn’t it?”

Moments later, Chakotay fought to keep a straight face as Admiral Janeway informed her aide to cancel her appointments, adding in no uncertain terms that unless there was a direct attack on Headquarters — and Starfleet was losing — she was unavailable for the rest of the day. They were at the door when the scrambling aide remembered something.

“Admiral? Sorry, ma’am, but if you plan on transporting from Headquarters, we’ve been directed to use Auxiliary Transporter Room Delta. Facilities has the main transporter room down for maintenance.”

Auxiliary Transport Room Delta turned out to be in the basement of Headquarters. Chakotay caught Janeway’s frown at the jumble of containers stacked in the room, and smiled and shrugged. The room obviously served as a surplus storage area when not in use, but a transporter was a transporter. He gave the Grungan operator - a species that always reminded Chakotay of an upright greyhound dog - the coordinates for their destination and stepped onto the platform with Janeway.

“Energize.”

Blue sky, a collage of wood-sided shops, and craggy basalt cliffs overlooking white-capped ocean swells greeted Chakotay when the shimmer and sparkle of the transport faded. The view through the transparent dome that housed Mendocino’s transport station never failed to beguile him. He turned, eager to see Janeway’s reaction.

He was alone on the platform.

* * *

It wasn’t Mendocino — she was damn sure of that. The rest was a jumble of hazy images, confusing sounds, and sinus passages that felt dryer than a Vulcan desert. Her best guess was she’d been gassed or drugged.

So, did that make two things she knew?

Three, she amended as she struggled to sit up on the floor. A cold, heat-sucking stone floor . . .

But not number three. No, number three was reserved for something more important than a stone floor. Number three was Chakotay. And the fact he wasn’t here with her. Janeway hugged her knees. If he were, he’d be helping her assess the situation and plot how to get out of here. Wherever here was. It wasn’t Mendocino — that was damn sure.

Wait a minute! Hadn’t she been here before? Well, not _here_ here - though this here, judging by the stacks of containers, did seem to be another damn storage room. No, the here where she knew she hadn’t arrived at her intended destination.

Janeway massaged her temples, fighting off the headache that prowled the edges of her befuddled senses like a hungry jackal. Why couldn’t she think clearly? Had she been drugged or gassed? And where was Chakotay? He wouldn’t let her fall asleep in this crummy room . . . on this cold, heat-sucking floor.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Captain, but as I’ve already told you, records clearly show that Auxiliary Transporter Room Delta hasn’t been in use since the Dominion - “

Chakotay grabbed a handful of uniform, yanked the startled aide from his chair, and pulled him up until his bloodless face was within centimeters of his own. “Then explain to me how Admiral Janeway and I transported from that room less than thirty minutes ago.” No point in mentioning he’d been unable to transport back into that same room just moments later.

“Is there a problem out here?”

Chakotay let the hapless aide stumble back into his chair and turned to find Vice Admiral Clayton McClarey, head of Starfleet Security, standing in his doorway. McClarey’s round, owlish face pulsed with anger.

“You have exactly one minute to explain yourself, Captain, or I shall be forced to have you escorted to the brig for assaulting a fellow officer.”

“I would have explained already if your aide had stopped quoting transporter records and let me speak with you directly, Admiral.”

“You were in a meeting, Admiral. I felt it best to . . .”

For such a mild-looking man, the admiral had a killer glare. The puffed-up aide deflated like a punctured balloon and suddenly discovered a stack of padds in urgent need of shuffling. In different circumstances, Chakotay might have felt sorry for him; he’d seen stronger men cowed by a similar fierce look.

_Kathryn . . ._

Chakotay realized then that all this anger was getting him nowhere. He drew in a deep breath and snapped to attention. With deliberate calm, he met the glare now aimed at him.

“It’s Admiral Janeway, sir. She’s been kidnapped.”

* * *

“Inen, the human is our prisoner, not our guest.”

“The human will serve no purpose if dead. The blanket and cot will prevent that, Grandfather.”

Lying on her side, her back to the room, Janeway heard the sharp smack of flesh hitting flesh, but kept still, unwilling to let whoever was present know she was awake.

“You will refer to me as Legate Grimor. Now wake the prisoner. It is time to begin.”

_Cardassians!_ Janeway tensed for a blow, but felt only a hand nudging her shoulder. “Get up, human. Gran . . . Grim . . . Legate Grimor wishes to speak with you,” urged a voice that strove for bravado, but quavered slightly and even cracked at one point. It dropped to a whisper and added, “If I were you, I’d try not to make him mad.”

Knowing she had little choice, Janeway ignored her stiff, aching muscles and turned over on the cot. The long chains that ran from the wall behind the cot to her manacled wrists clanked and rattled as she pushed back the thin blanket covering her. She eased her legs off the cot and slowly sat up.

A young Cardassian watched her every move. He reminded her of someone . . . Icheb. Yes, this Inen looked to be nearly the same age as the young man Voyager had liberated from the Borg. He even had the same dark hair and slim build. And that same earnest air about him, that same desire for approval.

Janeway’s eyes slid to the old Cardassian standing in the open doorway — purveyor of the approval Inen craved. Approval hard to come by, she decided as she sized up her captor. Age, and perhaps injury, had left their mark on the body that leaned heavily on a tarnished metal staff. With no flesh to soften them, his face and neck ridges stood out in sharp relief against the sagging gray skin of his head and shoulders.

Janeway shivered. Death rode his coattails, her Aunt Martha would say.

Yet the sunken eyes that stared out at her were far from dead. They glittered with pure, unadulterated malice. She shivered again. Whatever he wanted with her, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. She needed to start thinking about escape.

“Escape is futile this time, Admiral. I know all your tricks and then some.”

_And you read minds._ However, it was what he’d said that really concerned her. She had no recollection of this particular Cardassian, yet he spoke as if he knew her.

“If you are unconvinced, perhaps a demonstration is in order,” Grimor continued. “Setting two should be sufficient, Inen.”

For the first time, Janeway noticed the metal staff the young Cardassian held by his side. It was identical to Grimor’s walking stick.

_Weapon, not walking stick, you fool!_ If she didn’t get her act together, she’d —

“Inen!” shouted Grimor. The young Cardassian had shifted his staff into both hands, but was staring at it, uncertainty and horror warring on his face.

With a loud curse, Grimor lurched into the room, using his staff to knock the boy aside. With a move so honed over the years that his age and infirmity scarcely affected it, he swung that same staff into position and fired.

The bolt of green light caught Janeway in the chest and sent her reeling back onto the cot, the chains tethering her to the wall doing their own macabre dance as she thrashed and twitched, every nerve in her body misfiring again, and again, and again. Pain beyond her worst imaginings tore the breath from her body, denying her even the release of screaming. Deprived of oxygen, she teetered on the edge, caught between the siren call of unconsciousness and the persistent agony that refused to release her. Time and torment became synonymous until, at long last, the pain began to ease and she could again draw air into her lungs.

When she felt able to move, Janeway scrubbed her face with her blanket, eager to rid it of its damp mix of tears, mucus, and saliva. In some odd corner of her mind, she found herself oddly grateful this was as far as her loss of control went. Finished, she cautiously sat up again, wincing as her chains tugged and slid against still sensitive nerves.

Inen lay on the floor, his damp face and still twitching limbs evidence that he’d suffered his own punishment. Legate Grimor sat on a low container near the doorway, one stiffened leg propped awkwardly before him, his staff resting across his lap. He ignored the boy; his attention focused solely on her.

“Have you learned your lesson, Admiral Janeway?” he asked. The staff weapon swung around to point at her again. “Or is a bit more convincing in order?”

Her breathing was still a bit ragged, but Janeway managed to hold up a staying hand. She’d play along for now. “That won’t be necessary, Grimor. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

“You always were a fast learner, Janeway. But then, that’s why the Federation sent you to treat with the Cardassian Union, wasn’t it?”

Janeway frowned. Treat with Cardassians? She’d distrusted Cardassians, out-foxed and battled Cardassians. She’d even escaped from Cardassians. Not to mention unearthing a Cardassian spy in the midst of her former crew. However, she couldn’t remember a time when she’d treated with Cardassians. That job had fallen to her father.

Her father?

“You think I’m the Admiral Janeway who helped forge the original Cardassian-Federation Treaty.”

Grimor’s expression hardened. “Don’t try your word games on me, Janeway. You might have convinced my superiors to grow fat and stupid, lulling them with your Federation’s promises of mutually beneficial trade and cooperation. Unlike those fools, I’ve always seen through your twisted pronouncements.”

“You speak of my father, Admiral _Edward_ Janeway. And rather disparagingly, I might add.” Metal clinked against metal as Janeway brought her hand to her chest. “I am his daughter, Kathryn Janeway.”

Grimor coughed out a harsh laugh. “I knew you were a coward, Janeway, but hiding behind your own children? Were they not insignificant human children, I would almost pity them. It is no wonder your species’ offspring never grow to be warriors like our Cardassian children.”

“Like the child on the floor?”

Grimor spared no more than a glance at the boy sprawled on the floor. “He has learned his lesson, Janeway. I’m not sure you have.”

Janeway knew the instant the green light hit her that Grimor had upped the setting. The struggle between unending pain and unconscious oblivion went on forever. When unconsciousness eventually won out over the pain, Janeway’s last thought was to hope this was all just a bad dream.

* * *

“I’d like to take just Lieutenant Commander Paris and Lieutenant Ayala with me, Admiral. They’re good men, experienced in this sort of operation.”

Admiral McClarey’s gaze never stopped shifting between his computer monitor and the several padds spread around it. “Denied, Captain. I’m sending in a full complement of trained extraction teams.”

_No wonder they call this guy Overkill McClarey._ Chakotay took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Sir, with all due respect, a minimal team running a tight in-and-out maneuver stands a much greater chance of retrieving Admiral Janeway with little or no collateral damage.”

McClarey picked up a padd for closer study. “Noted.”

“Permission to join the extraction teams, sir.”

“Denied.”

“Sir, my time in the Maquis — “

“Was years ago.” McClarey laid the first padd down and picked up another. “Now, unless there is some part of ‘denied’ you don’t understand, you are dismissed, Captain.”

Chakotay acted without thinking. An antique desk set decorated McClarey’s desktop. With cat-like speed, he grabbed the letter opener, vaulted over the desk, and held the knife-like tool to McClarey’s throat before the man could even blink. “Are these the skills you think are too rusty, Admiral?” he growled through clenched teeth.

Then, just as suddenly, he released the admiral. He tossed the letter opener onto the desk and returned to where he’d been standing. Long seconds ticked by, and the silence in the room grew thicker than one of Neelix’s soups while McClarey rubbed his neck and glared at him. Chakotay braced himself for the tirade and charges he knew he deserved.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions. It actually felt good to let out the . . . what was it Kathryn called him years ago on New Earth? Oh yes, the Angry Warrior. It had felt extremely good to let the Angry Warrior take charge, if only for a moment. Too bad it was going to land him in the brig, spoiling any chance of helping rescue her.

“I see that the rumors were true,” said McClarey.

“Sir?”

McClarey shook his head, a man resigned to a course of action he’d rather not take.

“When you started transmitting Voyager’s logs there was a lot of speculation here at Headquarters. Unlike several of my esteemed colleagues, I didn’t give a flying fig if you and Janeway were screwing each other from one side of the Delta Quadrant to the other. As far as I was — and am — concerned, a personal relationship between officers is nobody’s damn business but their own. That is, unless it interferes with their duty. Or their judgment.”

Chakotay felt his chin drop, his thoughts racing. _So much for adhering to protocol. The entire Admiralty thought the two of us were sleeping together! Spirits! If we’d only known._ He stopped and mentally shook himself. McClarey was still talking, and as much as he wanted time to wrap his head around this revelation, right now he needed to concentrate on what the man was saying.

“. . . history of getting out of tight places in one piece, and the reason why, against my better judgment, I’m going to allow you and your men to attempt to rescue Admiral Janeway.”

Chakotay chin dropped again.

“With one caveat. You have thirty-six hours to find and rescue the admiral. After that, my extraction teams will get the job done.” McClarey gave Chakotay a hard look. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Don’t make me regret this decision, Captain.”

“No, sir!”

* * *

“So, Inen, Legate Grimor is your grandfather?”

Janeway followed up her question with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. It was a bit difficult to tell; her tired body ached as if she’d gone one too many rounds with a pissed off Kazon. To make matters worse, every so often she involuntarily twitched from the mess Grimor’s green light had made of her nervous system.

She needn’t have worried. The young Cardassian completely ignored her friendly overture and set the tray of food he carried on the floor the exact distance her chains would reach. He looked at her then, brusquely ordering her to return the tray to the same spot when she was done. Turning, he retreated, but only as far as a large container that sat on the opposite side of the door as the one his grandfather used. A hip braced against the container, he watched as she retrieved the tray and carried it back to the cot. His grandfather’s “lesson” might be modifying his current behavior, but Janeway still sensed his curiosity. Maybe she could use it to her advantage.

“Are your parents here with you and your Grandfather?” she asked as she picked through the over-ripe fruit and hard crackers on the tray.

“My parents are dead, Starfleet! Thanks to your Federation!”

Janeway recoiled at his embittered response. In any other situation, she’d never even think of exploiting the pain and hatred her question had dredged up. Here, her own survival was at stake.

“I am sorry for your loss, Inen. To have lost both parents by your age must —”

“Keep your pity, Starfleet. Your words are as empty as your Federation’s promises of medical aid when my mother was sick and dying. Grandfather . . . Legate Grimor says your ships could have delivered the medicine we needed in time. Our colony wasn’t that far from Cardassia Prime. And that medicine would have saved my mother.”

“Did your grand . . . er, Legate Grimor tell you why the ships didn’t arrive in time, Inen?”

“Starfleet claimed they were attacked by Maquis raiders. They fought them off, but the battle delayed them.”

Janeway racked her brain, trying to remember details from nearly fifteen years before.

“The Tempar Colonies. Starfleet ordered a medical convoy there in 2365 to combat a virulent outbreak of the Bolian flu.” She looked up, meeting the boy’s angry stare. “They **were** attacked by Maquis raiders, Inen. The damage they suffered kept them from reaching the colonies as soon as they’d hoped.”

“And my mother died!”

With those words, the young Cardassian’s expression crumbled. He bolted for the door, smacked the control, and fled as soon as the opening was wide enough.

Janeway stared at the closing door, unsettled by Inen’s hostility. Talking to him wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped.

* * *

“Told you already, don’t know who pay me measly bit to fix transport.”

Chakotay heaved himself up from the wooden table where he’d been questioning the transporter operator. “Your turn, Paris,” he roared. The whiney, malodorous Grunga cringed as the table rocked on its rickety legs.

As his captain retreated to a far corner of the room, his face a stony mask, Paris pushed his lanky body away from the wall behind him. He heaved a great sigh. Shaking his head and clucking softly, he strolled behind the uneasy Grunga. Leaning close, he said, “Cank, my friend, I’m not usually a betting man, but even I can see that the chances of the big guy over there not killing you in the next few minutes are some pretty long odds. If I were you, I’d think seriously about giving him the information he wants and very, very soon.”

Cank whimpered. “Cannot tell what do not know.”

Paris leaned in closer. “Not a wise move, my friend. The odds are getting longer. I bet there must be something you know.”

Cank turned his head to look Paris in the face. “Thought you not betting man?”

“Are you offering me the chance to win the information we need to find Admiral Janeway?”

“Depends on the stakes,” replied Cank.

“That depends on the information,” countered Paris.

A sly look replaced the Grunga’s hangdog expression. “Don’t know who, but know where.”

“To hell with this, Paris.” Mike Ayala stepped out of the shadows. “I say all bets are off and we beat the information out of him.”

Paris sought Chakotay’s eyes. _Let me run with this._

The older man gave an imperceptible nod, and then moved to place a staying hand on Ayala’s arm. “Tell you what, Mike, if Paris loses, you can beat _him_ to a pulp.”

Paris swallowed hard a couple of times; then whispered an amount in the Grunga’s ear.

“Federation credits?”

Paris nodded.

Cank wasn’t satisfied. “Double,” he countered.

Paris frowned and took his time before answering.

“Only if I get to pick the game.”

Cank licked his palm and held it out to Paris. In turn, Paris licked his own palm and smacked it against the Grunga’s. “Done,” stated the alien. “What game we play?”

* * *

His body lay over hers, heated flesh sliding against heated flesh, punctuated grunts and answering moans building to a crescendo until with intertwined howls they soared into the white light and sated bliss of completion.

“Chakotay,” she breathed, her arms reaching to hold him.

They closed on empty air.

Janeway opened her eyes to the cold reality of her prison room. She stared at the ceiling above her and sighed. A dream. A figment of her imagination. One she should have recognized.

Over the years, unable to accept the comfort the flesh and blood Chakotay offered, she’d given in to finding that solace in her dreams. It was a poor substitute, but the only one she could reconcile with the strictures of her position on Voyager. And the only one that helped her to face the challenges and heartbreak of the Delta Quadrant without going insane. He was her rock . . . her touchstone . . . her compass point. She smiled as a memory popped into her mind. Her angry warrior.

**Her** _angry warrior?_

Okay, so he’d been neither hers nor angry in years. But there were still the enduring ties of first officer to his captain. And if she knew her former first officer as well as she thought she did, having his former captain snatched right out from under his nose would make him plenty angry. And an angry Chakotay was something to behold.

Janeway smiled again, picturing him as she’d first seen him on Voyager’s bridge. Jaw clenched, dark eyes flashing, his broad-shouldered body balanced on the balls of his feet — a boxer poised to counter whatever was thrown at him. A raw, tightly coiled energy emanated from him. She’d felt its heat when she’d brazenly stepped between him and Paris.

And felt the same responding warmth spread through her body then as it did now.

Damn, maybe she should focus on something else. Now wasn’t really the time to be contemplating the possibilities of jumping the man’s bones. Not only did she have her current predicament to consider, but there was also the uncomfortable truth that she and Chakotay were just now finding their way back to the close-knit bond they’d shared in the early years of their journey. A bond that had gradually frayed and unraveled under the mounting pressures of the Delta Quadrant, deteriorating to the point where she’d retreated into being “The Captain,” and he’d eventually found someone who could give him the emotional and physical closeness he craved.

Seven. Now there was a topic to take her mind off sitting in another damn Cardassian prison.

A _t least you aren’t listening for Owen’s screams this time._

_Damn!_ That was another topic she’d rather not think about. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to hearing her own screams again, either.

_Targ’s breath!_ Maybe she should stick to thinking about Seven . . . or something, anything other than Cardassians and screams.

_Where are you, Chakotay?_

* * *

“Not stupid,” declared Cank, interrupting a third repetition of the game’s rules. “Game very easy. MASTERFUL fire BURNS wood. _Clever_ wood _floats_ on water.” A shiver ran through him. “Disgusting water thinks it can extinguish FIRE.”

Paris nodded, trying hard not to smile too broadly. The hand signs were perfect and the Grunga had definitely caught the varying emphasis he’d placed on certain words. If Cank chose to throw in some additional nuances and modifiers of his own, who was Paris to argue?

“Yeah, I think you’ve got it.” He hesitated. “But I’d still feel better if we played a couple of practice rounds.”

“Practice rounds?”

“We play, but there’s no bet involved.”

Cank looked shocked. “No point to game then.”

“That’s why it’s called practice.”

Silence fell. Behind him, Paris heard Chakotay and Ayala’s shifting bodies and signaled them to remain patient.

Suddenly, Cank slapped the table with his hands. “How this?” he asked. “Play practice. I win, no more practice.”

Paris snorted in laughter. “Fine by me.”

He took the seat across from the Grunga and held out his hands, one fist resting on the palm of the other hand. Cank did the same. Their eyes locked.

“Ready?” began Paris. “One.”

Their eyes still locked, he and Cank both smacked a fist onto an open palm.

“Two.”

They repeated the action.

“Three.”

Their fists started downward and Paris gritted his teeth, praying he’d read his opponent right. Hands slapped against hands and he glanced down.

Two hands, one Grunga and one human, rested palm up, fingers curled upward.

“It’s a tie. We both picked fire.”

“Masterful fire,” corrected Cank, his next words resigned. “No win, no lose. Must do again.”

“Ready? One. Two. Three.”

A series of high-pitched yips erupted from the Grunga. “I win. Masterful fire burn your not so clever wood.” A sly look came over his face. “No more practice.”

Paris frowned, but agreed. “No more practice. You win this time and you walk away with the credits I promised. You lose and you tell us the coordinates where you sent Admiral Janeway.”

Cank nodded impatiently.

“Okay then. Ready? One. Two. Three.”

Paris didn’t have to look; the Grunga’s anguished howl told him all he needed to know.

“Ah, too bad, my friend. It looks like disgusting water has extinguished your masterful fire.”

* * *

Janeway was up, stretching and moving about as much as her aching body, and her chains, would allow. It wouldn’t do to get too stiff. A noise at the door sent her scurrying back to her cot. It wouldn’t do to let her Cardassian “hosts” know what she was doing. By the time the door opened, she was sitting, curled into a corner of the cot, her back resting against the wall.

It was Inen. He entered cautiously and quickly gathered up the empty tray she had placed back on the floor. She tried a smile and a “good morning,” but he ignored her and left.

_So much for another friendly chat._ She got up and resumed her exercise. The next time he came, maybe she could. . . .

Janeway froze as the door slid open and Inen reappeared with the tray. On it were more crackers and over-ripe fruit.

Seeing her, he hesitated. Janeway retreated to the cot, hoping this would reassure him. Inen waited a moment as if ascertaining her intentions; then carefully set the tray down in the same spot as before. That done, he turned away.

Thinking her chance to gather more information was about to walk out the door, Janeway opened her mouth to stop him. Then promptly closed it.

Instead of leaving, Inen hoisted himself up on the same large container he’d leaned on before. He drew up his legs and rested his forearms on his bent knees. His hands played with a cracker; his attention focused on its every move.

Janeway knew better. From under lowered lashes, Inen’s bright eyes followed her every move as she picked up the tray and carried it back to the cot.She selected one of the least objectionable pieces of fruit and nibbled it as she thought over her next move. Considering their last conversation, she wasn’t quite sure how to begin.

Inen saved her the trouble.

“You killed my father, too.

“Excuse me?”

“My father, Starfleet.” Those bright eyes now bored into her. “Your Maquis pets killed him while he was helping protect other colonies from being slaughtered by your Federation.”

“When was this, Inen? And where?”

“What does it matter? Would your knowing bring him back?”

“No, it won’t,” Janeway gently replied. “But I would like to know.”

“2374. The Chin’toka System,” he spat. “Were you there?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Janeway kept her voice soft and matter-of-fact. “And neither were the Maquis. In 2373, almost all of them died in a joint Cardassian-Dominion attack on Telvik’s Moon. Those that didn’t were captured by Starfleet and incarcerated in the New Zealand penal colony. All of that was long before the First Battle of Chin’toka.”

“Lies!” Inen sprang off the container, his face and neck ridges pulsing with anger. “Grandfather is right. Starfleet tells nothing but lies.”

“Why would I lie, Inen?”

He ignored her question. “Grand . . . Legate Grimor will get the truth out of you.” He smacked the door control and stalked out.

Janeway watched the door slide shut behind him and sighed. _That certainly went well. Again._

* * *

Her conversation with Grimor went no better. He appeared just as she was placing the tray back on the floor. Like his grandson, he waited until she returned to the cot before he stumped into the room. He took a seat on the same low container as before.

“I see Inen has been pampering you again, Admiral,” he said, flicking his staff-weapon at the tray.

“Your grandson has a good heart, Grimor,” she replied. “Despite his rather jaundiced view of Starfleet and the Federation.”

“So your honeyed words failed you this time, Janeway, did they?” gloated Grimor. “Were you surprised that one so young refused to swallow the rotting swill you tried to feed him?”

Janeway hesitated, sensing they were again talking about more than her attempt to draw information from Inen.

Grimor didn’t wait for a response.

“Come now, Admiral, we both know the treaty you brokered was a Federation ploy. “

“My **father** helped negotiate the treaty to which you refer, a treaty intended to protect both parties from the impending threat of war.”

Grimor ignored her mention of her father, focusing instead on the treaty.

“Protect?” he roared. “The moment it was signed, raids on Cardassian ships and colonies escalated.” He paused, breathing heavily. “Ironic, isn’t it, how Starfleet used the Maquis to fight their battles just as the Dominion used the Jem Had’r.”

“Just as the Dominion also used the Cardassians, pulling you into a war that crippled your Union?” snapped Janeway.

Baiting him was risky. Yet, she wearied of Grimor’s fixation on her father and a failed treaty now relegated to the history books. She ached all over, was hungry for real food, and more than ready to get out of this damn place. She held up a hand, hoping to forestall another taste of punishing green light.

“Let’s forego the verbal battles, Grimor, and cut to the chase. What is it you want from me?”

The staff-weapon coming to bear on her, halted. Grimor’s face set in cold, unyielding determination.

“I want my son set free.”

* * *

“Okay, Paris,” said Mike Ayala, just loud enough to be heard, “like you, l know Grunga love to gamble. What I don’t know is how you knew what game to pick. And how you knew you would win it.”

There was a slight pause.

“You did know that didn’t you?”

“Relax, Mike. Have you ever known me to back a game where I couldn’t predict the winner?”

Chakotay listened to his companions as they threaded a route through a maze of damaged buildings and rubble — all that remained of this section of San Francisco’s international district. He was tempted to order them to cut the chatter, but realized his own foul mood was behind that inclination. A bit of chatter wasn’t going to distract these two, or him, from their mission. If, however, it kept him distracted from worrying constantly about Kathryn . . . well, that was more than okay. Besides, he had to admit Ayala wasn’t the only one curious about Paris’s triumph over the Grunga.

And equally skeptical of Paris’s not so rhetorical question, it seemed.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Yes, I knew I had some pretty good odds of winning. I’ve dealt with Grunga before.” Paris paused and tapped commands into his tricorder. “Not far now.”

“Any life signs yet?” asked Chakotay, despite knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

“No, the residual radiation from the Breen attack is still messing with scans.”

“At least it isn’t messing with us,” muttered Ayala.

“Yeah, I suppose we should be thankful for small favors,” said Paris. “Personally, I like my cells just — “

“Okay, let’s get moving,” barked Chakotay, his tolerance suddenly worn thin. “Maybe you two have forgotten, but our deal with Admiral McClarey runs out in a few hours.”

Paris and Ayala exchanged an uncomfortable look. Then Paris stepped close, risking a hand on his arm.

“We haven’t forgotten that, Chakotay, we’re all worried about Admiral Janeway. A little joking around just keeps it from getting to us.”

As suddenly as it had flared, the anger drained out of Chakotay like air pouring out a hull breach. He sucked in a deep breath, and then slowly released it. He reached out and clasped a hand on each of their shoulders.

“I knew I picked the right men for the job.”

In silent accord, the three of them moved out. They continued in silence for several minutes until it dawned on Chakotay that the others were keeping it for his sake.

“So, Paris, you said you’ve dealt with Grunga before . . .”

The younger man glanced back at him and grinned. “I have.”

Chakotay felt the knot between his shoulder blades ease as Paris chattered on.

“What you have to understand about the Grunga’s passion for gambling, is that they attach great importance to the hierarchical relationship of all possible permutations that produce a winning result.”

“Like my four threes beating your full house last poker night?”

“That was pure dumb luck, Ayala. And if you were a Grunga, you’d be so horrified of winning with such an inferior hand that you’d have thrown the game.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a Grunga,” Ayala snorted. “Those credits will come in handy next time my boys visit.”

Paris shook his head and sighed.

“My point is that once I added the Grunga’s attachment to hierarchy to the fact that Grunga think water is a thoroughly disgusting substance — as emphasized by their pungent odor — then my winning our little variation on rock-scissors-paper was a shoo-in.”

* * *

Janeway’s finger moved back and forth, tracing the lip of her bowl.

“Inen, I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t important. Are you sure your father is dead?”

Despite the sour ending to each of their previous conversations, the young Cardassian was back, sitting on the same container by the door. He looked up at her question, a bowl of the same weak broth poised before his lips. A frown creased his face and his words came with the thrust of anger behind them.

“I didn’t see his body, but I did read the letter from his commanding officer telling of his bravery in the face of death.” His frown deepened. “Why do you ask, Starfleet?”

“Your grandfather seems to think your father is still alive. He plans to trade me for him.”

It was quick, but Janeway caught the flicker of doubt that crossed Inen’s face. It disappeared behind the first smile she’d seen from him. A smile that blustered with scorn.

“Grandfather said you would try to trick me with your words, Starfleet.”

“Why would I try to trick you, Inen?”

“Humph! It’s what you do.” He gulped down the rest of his broth and slid off the container. If possible, his smile turned even more scornful. “Finish you broth, Starfleet. Grand . . . Legate Grimor will be here soon.

Inen turned and headed out the door, his parting remark tossed over his shoulder.

“He won’t like that you tried to trick me.”

“Think about what I said, Inen,” she called after him, hoping the boy’s innate curiosity would win out over his anger.

The door slid shut with a soft _thump_.

* * *

Paris raised a hand, bringing the three of them to a halt. He glanced up at the building across from their position, and then rechecked his tricorder.

“The radiation is still blocking life signs, but this is the place.”

The adrenalin surged through Chakotay’s body. _Hang on, Kathryn, we’re almost there._ He pulled out his own tricorder and brought up the schematic of what had once been the Cardassian Trade Center. Little more than a charred and broken skeleton of the three-sided structure remained; the Breen attack on San Francisco hadn’t discriminated between ally and enemy.

Ayala whistled softly. “I saw this place once . . . years ago. Loads of native Cardassian stone, swoops and curves everywhere to soften the angles, and rich earth tones throughout. I’ll give them this; the Cardies have a flair for architecture.”

“Sounds like they aren’t the only ones,” said Paris.

The other man shrugged.

“My father was an architect. He’s the one who showed me around this place.” Ayala turned to Chakotay, his eyes wide. “Does this mean Admiral Janeway’s been kidnapped by Cardassians?”

“Isn’t that a bit obvious — Cardassian kidnappers hiding in one of the few Cardassian buildings on Earth?” cut in Paris.

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Chakotay. “Ayala, you said you’ve been here. There’s not much left standing. Any ideas on where Admiral Janeway’s kidnappers might be holding her?”

Ayala thought for a moment, his eyes on the ruins.

“Since the brunt of the damage seems to be above ground, my bet would be on somewhere in the two levels of storage rooms below ground.”

“Great, we’re going to be searching the Bat Cave with flashlights,” grumbled Paris as he rummaged around in his pack.

“Put your Simm’s beacon away, Paris,” said Ayala. “The Cardassians relied on solar pipes for interior lighting in this building. There’s no reason those in the lower levels shouldn’t still be working.”

Well, that was something in their favor, mused Chakotay as he checked the schematic.

“Okay, the layout of the corridors splits each level into three sections. There are also three access points, one into each section.” He indicated two of the three access points. “I want the two of you here and here. I’ll take the other one.

“On my mark, we each search our section of the first level, and then rendezvous, if necessary, in this open area here before proceeding to the second level.” He pointed to another location; then looked up at his men.

“Weapons set to stun, necessary force only. Maintain an open comm link with check-ins every five minutes.”

“And if one of us finds Admiral Janeway?” asked Paris.

“If you can get her out safely on your own, do so. If not, fall back and signal for help.”

He saw the next question in their eyes.

“Rescuing the admiral is your first priority. Is that understood?”

* * *

“You will pay for trying to turn my grandson against me, Janeway,” bellowed Grimor as he hobbled into the room, Inen close on his heels. His staff-weapon swung into position and a bolt of green light sizzled across the room.

Janeway tried to dodge, but her chains tangled and caught. The bolt struck her shoulder a glancing blow, lessening the effect on her synapses, but still painful enough to send her reeling. However, it did leave her the air to scream — a scream cut off when Grimor fired again. This shot hit her in the side.

“Arrogant fool!” Grimor continued to rant. “Did you really think he would be taken in by your lies? That his young mind would be that easy to sway?” He fired yet again.

The misfiring of Janeway’s synapses saved her this time. Her body jerked to the side at the last moment, and the third green bolt crackled into the wall behind her, sending small, hot stone shards flying everywhere. A number of them hit her, leaving behind several tiny burns on the exposed skin of her face, neck, and hands.

His miss enraged Grimor. Through tears of pain, Janeway watched as he stepped closer. His eyes were wild and spittle glistened in the corners of his mouth. White-knuckled hands brought his staff-weapon to bear on her.

“Grandfather, stop.”

Inen stepped to his grandfather’s side.

“You said we needed the admiral alive.”

* * *

Chakotay glanced at his chronometer and swore. They were on the bottom level, but with too many doors to force open, searching both underground areas was taking longer than he’d anticipated. In about forty minutes, McClarey’s extraction teams would arrive and who knew what kind of hell would break loose then.

He tapped his communicator.

“Paris, Ayala, report.”

“Nothing so far,” replied Paris. “Not even a rat.”

“Nothing here — ” began Ayala. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a functioning door. Stand by.”

A long minute went by before he continued.

“Just a cot and some blankets on the floor. Along with a Cardie camp kit and supplies. The door is running on a portable power pack.”

“Any sign of Admiral Janeway?”

“No,” replied Ayala, “but I’d say we’ve got at least two Cardassians bivouacked here, Chakotay.”

“Then chances are good they’re holding Admiral Janeway not far from there,” he replied. “All right, Mike, hold position until Paris and I join you. Give us your location.”

With Ayala’s location pinpointed, Chakotay headed out. His pace was quicker, but caution kept him crouched low as he moved from doorway to doorway, pausing only to check around corners or into cross-corridors before proceeding. His focus was on reaching Ayala, not on the rooms he passed.

That’s why he nearly missed it. The sizzle of weapon’s fire didn’t register until he heard the scream. It was a voice he’d know anywhere.

Chakotay spun around and rushed back up the corridor. Angry shouting and two more bursts of energy led him to his goal — another functioning door. He hit the control and hugged the wall as it slid open.

“Grandfather, stop! You said we needed the admiral alive.”

With a quick look inside, Chakotay made his assessment and his decision between one heartbeat and the next. He stepped through the open door, his weapon aimed at the two Cardassians standing between him and Kathryn Janeway.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” he said.

To Chakotay’s surprise, the older Cardassian — a legate, judging by his uniform — reacted quite calmly, almost as if he’d been expecting this interruption. “How fortunate for you, Admiral Janeway, your ransom has arrived,” he told the shuddering form on the cot before he slowly lowered his weapon and turned to Chakotay.

“Where is my son?”

“Your son?”

“Grandfather?”

The questions came almost simultaneously, but the old legate ignored the latter.

“My son, Glinn Moren,” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “That was the arrangement — my son for Admiral Janeway. Where is he?”

Chakotay hesitated a second too long.

“You don’t have him!” the legate screamed. He whirled around and swung his weapon into position. “Then the admiral dies!”

“Grandfather, no!”

The boy lunged, trying to knock the legate’s weapon aside, but the old Cardassian wasn’t about to be stopped. He knocked the boy aside and aimed again at Janeway.

“Noooooo . . .”

Chakotay dove for the legate, taking him down with a flying tackle.

The weapon fired, but the stone shards that rained from the ceiling told Chakotay it had missed its intended target. It fired twice more as he struggled to wrestle it from the raging legate. The first released another shower of shards from the ceiling. The second elicited a yelped curse from Paris, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

Chakotay had little time to worry about Paris’s fate. He gained control of the weapon, only to have the legate pull a countermove that left him pinned to the floor. As Chakotay gazed up into a face devoid of anything but hatred, the Cardassian’s hands tightened on his neck. Blackness seeped into his field of vision. Something heavy fell across his face.

And was just as suddenly gone.

“Captain? Are you all right?” Ayala’s concerned face stared down at him.

Chakotay took a quick inventory; then sat up.

“I’ll live. What . . .”

“No, grandfather, no. You can’t die, too.”

Chakotay turned to see the young Cardassian on his knees, cradling his grandfather’s head on his lap.

“What was he thinking? My father is dead.” The boy looked up at Chakotay. “Please don’t let him die, too.”

Chakotay felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I got it, Captain. Go check on the admiral.”

Paris slipped past him. He was limping, but seemed fine otherwise. He knelt by the old Cardassian’s side, speaking in quiet, gentle tones to the boy as he pulled out his med-kit.

“Chakotay?” Ayala held out a hand to help him to his feet.

Quick strides carried him across the room to Janeway’s cot.

She was sitting up; her quivering body huddled beneath a thin, soiled blanket. Someone, most likely Paris, had used a phaser to cut through her chains, though the manacles still circled her wrists. He’d get those off in a moment. Right now, he needed to hold her.

“Oh, Kathryn,” he exhaled as he sat down and lifted her into his lap. Her hair was a mess, she smelled of stale perspiration, and tiny burns and cuts marred her fair skin. He didn’t care. She was warm and soft and very much alive.

“Chakotay?” Her voice was a faint rasp.

“I’m here, sweetheart, I’m here,” he murmured, pulling her close and showering her head with soft kisses.

* * *

It took a few days, but they finally made it to the café in Mendocino where the clam chowder in a freshly baked bread bowl more than lived up to Chakotay’s claims. As did the coffee. She sipped and chewed her meal down to the last crumb. She tried to sneak a few bites of his bowl, but he laughed and gently rapped her knuckles with his spoon. When she persisted, he moved it out of her reach.

After lunch, they strolled through several shops and galleries, whispering, laughing, or making rude faces over some item one of them spotted. For the most part, however, they remained silent, content just to enjoy each other’s company and the beautiful day. If their hands remained clasped and their bodies stayed in close proximity, well, that was part of the enjoyment.

Smiling to herself, Kathryn watched the blue-gray waves tumbling one over the other to reach the beach and swirl a victory dance around her ankles.

Those special touches and looks came so naturally now. And had from the moment Chakotay pulled her into his lap in that god-forsaken prison room and held her close. Letting her know her ordeal at the hands of Legate Grimor had ended.

Her smile deepened as a warm body pressed against her back.

“Should I be worried?” Chakotay asked as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “You seem to be thinking awfully hard.”

She shook her head and leaned back into his embrace.

“No, I was just thinking about the debt I owe Legate Grimor and his grandson.”

Chakotay’s body stiffened against her.

“I’ll give you that the kid was decent. And will be even more so once all the hatred his grandfather pumped into him is deprogrammed.” His voice turned as cold and hard as she’d ever heard it. “But Grimor was a lunatic, Kathryn. He thought you were your father, for spirits sake! He tried to kill you.”

“He suffered from dementia, Chakotay.”

“Humph!”

Realizing she owed him a better explanation, she turned in his arms and rested her hands on his chest.

“I did a bit of research on Grimor,” she explained. “As a legate, he served as part of the governing body that negotiated the first Cardassian treaty with the Federation. One of only three dissenting votes. I think he saw the same inevitable problems as my father did.”

Chakotay scowled. “So, why kill a man who shares your opinion?”

“He called my father a coward. You see, they both made no secret of their opinions about the treaty. However, unlike my father, Grimor paid a price for his outspokenness. His superiors stripped him of his rank and buried him in some low-level administrative job on one of the Tempar Colonies.”

Janeway sighed softly, her hands fiddling with the open collar of his shirt.

“It was a hard come-down for a proud man, and in his eyes, it all began to go wrong with the signing of that treaty. He must have latched on to that idea as his mind failed, his dementia twisting everything bad thing that happened — like the death of his daughter-in-law and then his son — into a Federation conspiracy. With my father as the lead conspirator. Perhaps because he escaped Grimor’s fate.”

She shrugged.

“In the end, as far as he was concerned, there was only one Admiral Janeway.”

Janeway looked up then, but Chakotay was staring at the ocean. She reached up and tugged his face down until his eyes met hers.

“Understand, I’m not excusing what he did to me, but knowing **why** he did it is helping me get past it and move on.”

His body relaxed but his scowl remained. “I understand that, Kathryn. What I don’t understand is what debt it is you could possibly owe Grimor.”

She ducked her head. “Oh, that. The usefulness of madmen. . . .”

She looked back up at him.

“He got rid of the last barriers between us, didn’t he?”

Chakotay’s scowl faded, transformed into a smile that opened the floodgates to a deep full belly laugh. He tightened his arms around her and swung her in dizzy circles.

“That he did, Kathryn Janeway. That he did.”

When he finally put her down, they clung to each other as they caught their breath and their balance.

“Chakotay, do you think we could stay here a few days?”

“Sure, we’re both on leave for at least another week. I’ll get us a couple of rooms when we head back into town.”

She smiled up at him. “Oh, I think one room will be enough.”

When he closed his mouth, she kissed him.

* * *

His body lay over hers, heated flesh sliding against heated flesh, punctuated grunts and answering moans building to a crescendo until with intertwined howls they soared into the white light and sated bliss of completion.

“Chakotay,” she breathed, her arms reaching to hold him.

They closed on warm, bronze skin, one hand seeking the softness of his hair, the other tracing feathery circles on his back.

“I love you,” she whispered.

**THE END**


End file.
